


Wish Upon Lidded Blue Flames

by skeletncloset (alexa_dean)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, BAMF Jared Padalecki, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Consensual Underage Sex, First Love, First Time, Frottage, Homophobic Language, Hurt Jensen Ackles, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oblivious Jared, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Shy Jensen, Teenagers, Top Jared Padalecki, Underage Drinking, Underage Jared, Underage Jensen, Virginity Kink, partial penetration, preacher's son Jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3651789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/pseuds/skeletncloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If not for his mama, Jensen and Jared might’ve never stumbled over each other. Jensen at dewy nine, scabby-kneed on the muddy ground, resigned to his daily ass-kicking from the neighborhood roughnecks and wild-haired, pointy-boned Jared standing taller, impossibly tall from Jensen’s vantage in the dirt, standing straight and true like he held up heaven, coming down on Jensen’s tormentors with the wrath of the Almighty, molly-whopping the bunch and dragging Jensen off by the arm, boys cussing and groaning in a puddle behind them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish Upon Lidded Blue Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Love ridden, I've looked at you  
> With the focus I gave to my birthday candles  
> I've wished on the lidded blue flames  
> under your brow  
> And baby, I wished for you  
> Nobody sees when you are lying in your bed  
> and I wanna crawl in with you  
> But I cry instead  
> I want your warmth but it will only make me colder  
> when it's over,  
> So I can't tonight, baby
> 
> -fiona apple

**  
  
The trailer is muggy-hot and unpleasant on account of his mama and her boyfriend. Anticipating another fight between them-- another lie, another too-true accusation—Jensen makes a surreptitious exit. He knows his mama, better than anyone. The calculated helplessness of her face is meant to draw men to her, like men are moths to the shine of her honey-thick locks, her rosy bright cheeks. But the eyes she cuts to Jensen are the hard gleam of river pebbles, telling him,  _don’tcha open your mouth, Jensen Ross._  Telling him,  _make yourself scarce._.  
  
He loads the milkcrate affixed to his bike, quick and skillful. Softens the impermanent tap of the tinfoil-thin screendoor as it closes behind him. Past the cinderblock and mortar enclosure at the end of the silt-packed driveway, far enough no one can hear the whir of gears, he jumps onto the seat. Uses the meager heft of his whole body to pedal fast and wholehearted.  
  
It ain’t his mama’s fault she wasn’t meant for parenting. Everybody knew that. He heard it from her himself. Can see it too. Way too pretty for small town living. And it’s the God’s honest truth. Vera Mae Ackles is the sort of mama that takes to wearing real feathers in her hair and gypsy bangles on her wrists; as likely to walk out before every Jack and Jane in Polk County in her frayed daisy dukes as she is  _without_  them.  
  
Jensen’s mama has a face fit for the big screen. Coulda made it up there too, if Jensen hadn’t come along and sucked the strength and meat off her bones, growing and growing big in her belly. He’d ruined a good thing for her.  
  
They tell Jensen his mama has no shame, like he’s supposed to do something about it. Say, she’s crammed full of devils. Say, Jensen is gonna grow up just like her if he’s not careful. Say Jensen is her mirror-match in boy skin. They tell him things, mean and ugly, like he’s somehow accountable to them.  
  
If he does end up like her, Jensen can see no wrong in it nothing sticks to his mama. She’s a seasnake sort of girl. Wriggles right outta your hands the moment you close in on her. She walks tall like a heron and shimmies like a snake. Her sassy-mouthed delivery is flawless and easy always. She says everything with a smile and not one lick of a  _bless your heart_.  
  
If Vera Mae was something that could be learned, Jensen would’ve learned and relearned her a hundred times over already.  
  
Young as Jensen is, he  _has_  to mind the veiled faces in white gloves and sunhats, white-collars and wing-tipped shoes, even if the whole of him hurts bad and has him baring his teeth. In a place like Polk, founded by right-winged extremists, Jensen and his mama are insults to good ol’ Amuri _can_  values. Can end up burnt-up at the stake for all Jensen knows.  
  
No girl should suckle a babe at her breast at fourteen, and  _every_  girl should have the decency to name the daddy. Vera Mae says she doesn’t owe anyone any damn thing. Jensen knows it’s his mama being herself by fingerfucking every confederate, flag-flying Jesus freak. But Jensen isn’t any of these things, and no matter how many times Jensen asks his mama about his daddy, in just as many ways, he still gets the same off-handed response:  _it was Magic, honeybabe. Black Magic_ , and she’d say it legit, like it’s God-given.  
  
It’s nothing but unfair, if you ask him. He takes a lot of shit over his mama, and although proper Southern ladies and gents don’t bother with Jensen in public, their children sure as hell do. Small, with a face like a lady doll, and a mouth fit for a high-priced prostitute on steroids, Jensen fuels their fire on the regular.  
  
It’s no big deal, since Jensen has Jared. If not for his mama, Jensen and Jared might’ve never stumbled over each other. Jensen at dewy nine, scabby-kneed on the muddy ground, resigned to his daily ass-kicking from the neighborhood roughnecks, and wild-haired, pointy-boned Jared standing taller, impossibly tall from Jensen’s vantage in the dirt, standing straight and true like he held up heaven, coming down on Jensen’s tormentors with the wrath of the Almighty, molly-whopping the bunch and dragging Jensen off by the arm, boys cussing and groaning in a puddle behind them.  
  
Five years since, and Jared affects Jensen much the same, maybe a little more, maybe a little  _worse,_  because Jensen loves him with the  _worst_  sort of love. The dirtiest, most unforgiving and unforgiveable. Because Jared is some kind of miracle. Some kind of gift. Has Jensen baring his lumbering, clamoring heart on his sleeve like a visible target. Has Jensen heat-flushed with shame, messy with joy—all sorts of things Jensen shouldn’t feel for another boy, and especially not a Preacher’s son. But how is Jensen s’posed to stop? What’s he s’posed to do?  
  
Head bowed, Jensen and his cruiser crunch and trundle over dry earth and gravel, past the local watering hole. His hair falling soft and secret over his face, away from bug-eyed glances by lit-up regulars. It’s the sort of red-necked place that stays strung up on the insides with Christmas lights all year long. Jensen would know it too. Had come in search of his mama more times than he has fingers and toes. A veritable second home and not much of one either.  
  
Jared and Jensen while away their weekends differently. At the bar, Jensen has benches and bar tops, smoke and hair-metal music for company. At the chapel, Jared has people, and pews and altars, Sunday morning sermons with Daddy. Jared soaks up frankincense, plays magic, transforms prayer and hymns into song. Jensen holds his pretty mama’s hair back from her china-white face as she hurls pills and liquor down the toilet. Tucks her tight in bed after.  
  
When they’re together, they’re much the same.  
  
Veering off the common road, Jensen slows into a copse of bald cypress, dead grass brushing the caps of his scar-pinked knees. By the time he arrives at the riverbend, salt-tracked and sun-beaten, for a long moment he can do nothing but sweat, body and bike leant-up close and shadowed by an oak  
  
Jared calls this place  _don’t-give-a-damn-bend_  cause God and the Devil deliberately overlook it. Settled by foxes and jackrabbits, there are no worries here. Not about snot-nosed teenagers wagging their beer-sodden tongues and flicking cigarette butts in Jensen’s direction, not about Jared breaking knuckles open on someone’s flinty teeth.  
  
Setting up camp, Jensen near shrivels up in the summer-soaked heat. Army blanket the color of pencil lead, itchier than sawdust, over it a bleach-smelly sheet to shield skin from prickly wool, all wedged up between wide-branching roots of the hundred-year oak.  
  
He’s got a cooler of ham & cheese sandwiches on one corner, water bottles on the opposite. In his hands is a mason jar of Billy’s jack-you-up-six-ways-from-Sunday moonshine, the type of backwoods liquor you gotta psych yourself up to drink. And that’s exactly what Jensen does: open water bottle tucked between his thighs, deep breathing till he’s lightheaded, stealing himself for two big gulps in gagging succession.  
  
He does pretty well, dry-heaves twice but settles down quick enough.  
  
Could be the liquor working magic, could be the spirit of the place that has Jensen stripteasing down to skin and shadow. Fourteen years of looking down and away  _gone_  soon as Jensen dips naked feet into water. He listens to the broken voices of frogs singing him calm, the strangely electric hum of cicadas. Sunlight lingers on his sandy-haired head, the avian span of his shoulders; the visible column of his spine till Jensen can all but see his freckles increasing like footprints in a game of demented fairy hopscotch.  
  
Silent, he slips below the current, feels it split around his body, tug at his hair; drain the heat from his limbs. He doesn’t stay long under. After a few minutes, he wades his way back to the embankment and teeters perilously, toes spreading on the igneous (metamorphic?) rock beneath him, wet but not slippery. Alcohol makes Jensen careless and spacy. The combination leaves him feeling like he’s running with scissors.  
  
No towel. He prefers keeping what clothes he has dry. River water dribbles down his body and he flicks hair from his stinging eyes, sucks at fat droplets clinging to his lower lip and goes for the bare minimum, boy briefs, bright-white and threadbare. they cover everything that needs covering.  
  
At some point, Jensen must have fallen asleep. He can tell by the long shadows on the ground that it’s close to five. His hair lies damp over his brow and cheeks. His skin is grainy with fine red dust. The sun has neared the horizon but in front of it--aglow and on fire like a moon in eclipse, Jared’s silhouette twists, bends to pull a tee over his head, tosses it in Jensen’s face, board shorts close behind. Jensen makes a sound that is pure displeasure at being assaulted by sweaty adolescent boy. Jensen can’t make out Jared’s features but he knows Jared is grinning at him, dimples deep and dark, pitiless as the rapturous curve of his lips, both holy and mad.  
  
He kind of hates Jared for being so God-awful clueless. Hates the way Jared manages to look like something Jensen made up in his head. Honestly, it’s no big thing but  _because_  Jensen is as wicked as wicked can be, it is most definitely an issue to trump all issues, especially hereabouts. The only thing more vulgar than the neighborhood hussy and her bastard progeny is a cock-gobbling fag, which Jensen most definitely is. Without a doubt. And he’d like to gobble Jared Padalecki given a chance. Who just so happens to be the pastor’s son. Hell, Jensen would settle for gargling his nuts.  
  
Jensen’s mama has got  _nothing_  on him. No- _thing_.  
  
Jared, oblivious to Jensen’s inner turmoil, leans right over him, peaked dimes of his nipples brushing against Jensen’s belly to get to the Mason jar of 90 proof. Jared sniffs it delicately and takes a swig, Adam’s apple working overtime. His eyes squint and water, and his nose scrunches up.  
  
“What the hell is this? Battery acid? No wait--Lighter fluid!” he gags. “Oh Lord, help me.”  
  
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Jensen responds haughtily. Because seriously. Jared should be fucking grateful. “I don’t see you pilfering your Daddy’s wine cabinet.”  
  
“Point,” Jared concedes with a gasp. Then because Jared doesn’t see the point in filling people in, he says something along the lines of “I finally did it,” or something equally mundane and painfully vague. Or  _maybe,_  Jensen missed the entire anecdote because he’d been too distracted by the unruly curls growing from Jared’s armpits, the unevenly seeded pubes cutting down the middle of his belly-- scant but irrefutably masculine—to pay any special attention.  
  
Nine months is forever and a day. Seems to make all the difference between child and stripling. Jensen seems worlds away from the latter. He can’t expect to be taken seriously. Yet.  
  
“Oh?” Jensen isn’t articulate at the best of times. While he’s always been unsure and awkward, it’s a rare occurrence around Jared. The onset of puberty has not only rendered him an ungainly creature, with long skinny legs bowing outward from him like a spider, and a voice that cracks like a radio between stations, it has managed to kill the few remaining brain cells that had any sense, let alone intelligence.  
  
He rubs his elbow, absently. “Did what?”  
  
“I kissed her.”  
  
“Who?” Of course, Jensen knows. However this is punishment. There is no apology Jensen can come up with suitable enough for his special brand of deceit.  _Hey, Jared, I love you--like for real—and totally not like a brother. P.S. Can I jump on your boner? That’d be totally awesome. Thanks._  
  
Although, in his own defense he can remember a time when he noticed Jared no more than he noticed a change in weather or the earth beneath his feet. Which is to say, he’s felt Jared in a more offhandedly visceral way, tangible and intimate and unquestionably present every day of Jensen’s life, since Jared bumped, stumbled, and punched his way into it.  
  
Jared throws his hands up in the air. “Do you ever listen? Krystal? Remember?”  
  
“Yeah, of course,” Jensen’s face heats up so quickly his eyes burn.  
  
“I kissed her with  _tongue_  and everything.” Jared’s teeth are so very white. Like confection sugar. Jensen wants to lick the sweet right out of his mouth. Crisp, clean and peppermint. Maybe.  
  
He blinks the image away, then against his better judgment, Jensen asks, “And how was that?”  
  
Jared’s eyes narrow and he pinches his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. His thoughtful face looks a lot like his mischievous face. Something about the angles, cheekbones like fine young knives. Jensen wants to cut himself to ribbons on them. Into red, red ribbons.  
  
“Wet,” Jared pipes up, then after two pulse-beats of Jensen’s mortally wounded heart: “Squishy.”  
  
“That sounds disgusting.”  
  
“It’s really not. Best thing ever, actually. She even let me touch her tits.”  
  
“Hmmm.” There’s not much Jensen can say to that. He watches Jared, the trapped image of himself on the skin of Jared’s eye, an eye like a kaleidoscope heart. Faceted: sea-glass, bottle-green, pirate-coin, but mostly treasured.  
  
“You know,” Jared blinks and releases Jensen from his jewel-box prison, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re jealous.”  
  
_Not exactly_ , Jensen thinks, blows air through his nostrils, palms his eyes, and tries not to think about it. But the more he tries not to, the more aware of it Jensen becomes.  
  
It’s just a fucking kiss. Like any other. Just one stupid kiss.  
  
Except, when it’s totally fucking  _not_. It’s Jared’s  _first_  kiss, no take-backs, and it’s far from okay. He gave it  _away_  and too freely at that, to someone hardly worthy of it.  
  
“I’m supposed to go over to her house tomorrow for  _bible study_.” His voice is warm butterscotch. Peach schnapps, the stuff his mama’s old boyfriend Tom used to give him so he could watch Jensen’s toddler face screw up for shits and giggles.  
  
“What do you think?” Jared asks, sidling closer: thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. Bare skin making grand sweeping gestures against Jensen’s bare skin; stiff and scratchy sounds on the bed sheet. Jared’s proximity drives the thump of Jensen’s hummingbird heart skittering to his belly. And it’s no place for a heart, too corrosive. Or worse, if he pukes, it could get stuck in his throat, and he’ll choke to death chewing his own meat.  
  
But there's nothing he can do, except allow it to happen, because he can't think of a better way to die than by overexposure to Jared.  
Jared runs hot, so hot it takes very little to set him off sweating, like he burns on the inside, like he can’t help but smolder and glow in a way Jensen will never be able to. In a way Jensen can’t understand, but would die a hundred deaths if he could in some way hold it inside for one brilliant, luminous moment.  
  
Jensen smiles bitterly. He has every intention of scooting away, but it doesn’t evolve from passing fancy. He tucks the trembling arrow of his chin into his bony chest, willing the pinpricks of glittering heat to disappear from his eyes.  
  
“Do you think it means we’re officially going out?”  
  
Oh, God. Why won’t he shut up? “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her like a normal person?”  
  
“What? And admit that I have insecurities? Oh, hell no,” Jared wraps one lean, newly muscled arm--strung and corded and so very, very defined-- around Jensen’s shoulders,. “I must remain casually aloof. When you’re my age—“  
  
“You’re not that fuckin’ old—“  
  
“—you’ll come to understand you must never disclose any weakness to the fairer sex. It’s like, suicide or something. Death by manipulation.”  
  
“And you would know this how?”  
  
“Real Housewives of Atlanta.”  
  
Jensen’s eyebrows disappear underneath his hairline. “Your Dad lets you  _watch_  that shit?”  
  
Jared smirks at him with an overconfident, if subtle, huff. “No. But--” he pauses for added effect, “what he doesn’t know, can’t hurt me or my social life.”  
  
“So why are you telling  _me_  any of this?” Surely this is divine retribution for Jensen’s immoral inclinations.  
  
“Because you’re my best friend, and best friends tell each other everything. You’d tell me, right?”  
  
What. The. Fuck. Like Jensen doesn’t already feel like an asshole. And a shady one at that. But try as he might, Jensen cannot bring himself to mock Jared. It means  _too much_  and  _not enough at all_ , all at once. Mirrors his relationship with Jared, he’s stuck in soundless tug-of-war that has nothing and everything to do with hormones.  
  
Unused to Jensen’s silence, Jared bumps his elbow. Jensen pointedly stares at his own naked feet, long and pale. The skin is delicate, not quite translucent but seemingly nebulous in the heat. It’s like that in all his softer places, all the secret bits unbaked by sun, those that hold none of the riotous, saturated color of full-grown desire. And maybe that’s what it takes. Maturity Jensen hasn’t yet reached. And tits.  
  
“Look, man, I was  _joking_. Ha, ha. See? Not about kissing Krystal, obviously. That did happen. And she also invited me over too . . .”  
  
If only Jared could see Jensen like Jensen sees him. How magical Jared is. How his skin retains the afterglow of sunset all over. How Jared’s smell alone fills all the shadowy voids in Jensen’s small, insignificant life.  
  
Jensen doesn’t trust his voice to speak.  
  
“Jen _sen_ ,” Jared whispers and someone should have told him to keep his reckless, heedless hands to himself, because the contours of Jensen’s heat-bitten cheek fit so flawlessly into Jared’s palm.  
  
Their shadows leap together, and light crawls over the ground toward them in inconstant, unpredictable patterns, the sky edged in indigo in places shrouded from the sinking sun. It fills Jensen with dread. Fear of Jared’s absence, that Jensen too might pass unnoticed and unwarmed.  
  
Jensen has never been one for words so he leans into Jared’s hand, closes the round of his mouth over the tip-end of Jared’s skinny thumb. There, Jensen tastes hickory, smoke, salt. The phantom nucleic heat of them on fire.  
  
He shivers out in goosebumps, his body’s futile attempt to communicate desire. He shuts his eyes, cherry red membrane of his lids as good as rose-colored glasses, except better, bloodier. Like this, he can pretend Jared to be in love with him. Like this, he’s wanted.  
  
Says, earnest: “I love you.” And it means  _I want you,_  and  _I can’t bear to lose you,_  and  _I won’t share you_  and  _please, please, love me back._  
  
But Jared hasn’t punched him or moved away. Doesn’t hardly breathe. Instead, he twists next to Jensen, and Jensen captures Jared’s hairsplitting hipbone in his hand, and curved skull in the other, gripping the half-curls there. Jared’s disheveled hair tickles Jensen’s cheeks as he gentles Jensen down onto the rumpled-up blanket underneath them. Climbs over Jensen and slots slow and easy between Jensen’s wide-split thighs. No hesitation. Gravitating toward one another like they must have been doing this entire time.  
  
It encourages Jensen to glance up at him, watch Jared’s tongue gather the moisture beading on his upper lip, so intent on Jensen. They smear over each other, sweaty chest to sweaty chest, with the shape of Jared’s dick grooving up alongside Jensen’s smaller one. Jensen’s soaked through his boy-shorts and Jared is already pushing away at his own boxers, tucking them under his balls as he grinds into Jensen. It’s so fucking dirty. That Jensen should know the feel of Jared’s dick before he’s even closed in on Jared’s baby-pink mouth--  
  
When he finds it, it’s whipped-cream, sugar-spun soft. He sighs and seals his flushed mouth over Jared’s bow-plump lip, sucks on it, light, steady pressure, salivating over it, lapping it, makes noises at it and Jared echoes, suckling the jut of Jensen’s lower lip.  
  
It isn’t frantic. Jensen doesn’t try to swallow Jared’s tongue and Jared doesn’t knock Jensen’s tonsils loose. Jensen is happy to relearn him, this new Jared: the curves of his lips, the spanning angles of his bones and newly burgeoning muscle.  
  
But Jensen is also searching for the Jared he remembers and finds him. Here, a boyish ripple of ribcage. There, further up, between his shoulder blades, the bony protrusions of Jared’s spine. Jensen keeps his hand there, centered and momentarily pacified, hemmed in on all side by Jared’s forearms and puppy-paws, covered by Jared’s laving tongue on his throat, and over the emerging edge of his jaw.  
  
When Jensen feels Jared lean sideways, skid a hand between them and into Jensen’s underwear, working it down enough to release Jensen, Jensen’s eyes track the movement. Skims his gaze over Jared’s concentrated brow, his thoughtful mouth, then lower to something he longs to see: Jared’s tanned golden-brown skin against the lighter milk of his own, the strawberry tip of his prick to the richer pomegranate of Jared’s. Both easily embraced in Jared’s tight fist.  
  
They rut together like that, uncoordinated and clumsy. They’re both new to it, ignorant of everything except the most basic mechanics. It’s not long before the lack of technique changes. Soon as Jared closes his fever-ruddy mouth over Jensen’s again, pushing into him with his crushed-velvet tongue until he’s deep, deep inside, driven by the crucial and brutal knowledge of the transitory nature of  _good things_ \--that you must surrender completely or not at all. And Jensen falls in by instinct, smoothing a hand over Jared’s bicep and jolting into him from below.  
  
Jensen clings to Jared, locking a heel over the sweeping low of Jared’s back, the other foot arching to the long, subtle contour of Jared’s calf, Jensen's toes scratching at the air, just as he shoves his other hand between them to interlace their fingers together, tickle of wiry pubes against his knuckles. Noses bumping as Jared breathes into him.  
  
Jared takes a bite of Jensen’s lip, lets Jensen take over jacking them, rough and fast. Jared’s fingers scurry over Jensen’s sides, tremble over his hips, then spread wide, carving into rounds of Jensen’s ass. Burrows fingers into skin and muscle and what little fat Jensen has and hauls them both into a seated position. Savagely prying and tugging at Jensen’s backside, until Jensen is certain if someone were to run up on them, they would see straight through the warped cloth of his briefs to the smallest indentation at his center; not much of a hole at all, only gathered supple flesh, shuttered and hesitant, a natural do-not-enter sign.  
  
The thought sends the smallest shudder through Jensen, a most delicious thrill. He takes one of Jared’s strong, delicate-boned hands, brings it to his mouth, whispers a prayer into his palm as though it were stone and not flesh, and slicks his fingers up with spit.  
  
“Put them in,” he hisses, cheeks stinging. “Put them in me,” and guides his hand to the waistband. “I want you to feel me inside. I want you to finger me like a  _girl_.” He nestles his lips to the cup of Jared’s ear, flicks the lobe with his teeth. “I want you to think of me whenever you do it to anybody else.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jared tucks his chin over Jensen’s skinny shoulder, following the cleft of his ass with his battle-scarred hands, down to where Jensen is tender-pink and untouched, even by himself. “Yeah, I can do that.”  
  
“I’ve thought about it,” Jensen confesses. He can say _anything_  now that Jared can’t see his face and he can’t see Jared’s. “I’ve wanted to do it myself, imagine you in there, just . . . never got around to it, I guess. Did everything else, pinched my nipples sore, brushed my fingers over it when I got too overeager playing with my balls.” Jensen smiles when Jared groans, Jared’s hair getting in Jensen’s eyes, “that happens a lot.”  
  
“You beating off? Or you thinking of me?” Jared’s words rush out in a voice that promises to lick Jensen out if it could. Fuck the demons right out of him.  
  
However shy and inquisitive Jared’s callused fingers had been at the start, easing into the unforgiving stretch of Jensen’s wriggly little ass, they’re far from it now. They tease, and they snag at the supple bud between his cheeks, advancing and retreating. Each time a little more room, a little more give.  
  
Clear, hot fluid pearls on the slit of Jared’s dick, wells up and spills over onto Jensen’s, over his red-knuckles. The sound they make together growing louder, richer, sloppy-wet, sticky, has Jensen rotating his hips, backing up into the squirm of Jared’s fingers. Crying out when Jared’s knuckles bulge past the first ring of muscle, all the way down, clutching vice-like around Jared. Jared wiggles two fingers inside Jensen in spite of this and Jensen hisses agonized bliss.  
  
“You’re so small,” Jared laughs, takes a languorous, inexorable thrust forward, then plucks on something upon receding. Jensen surges forward, keening on a sob, his brow creasing, hands fumbling to Jared’s shoulders, bracing against that new sharp sensation.  
  
“It’s too much,” he whimpers. But Jared stabs forward, heedless and Jensen groans into Jared’s jawline. He breaks his teeth tenderly over the smooth, abiding skin there and rocks his hips back with a, “fuck” and an “oh” and something a lot like “again.” And another, because one can never be enough for something this good, this dirty, this unholy. Not with Jared’s long, careful fingers. “Oh,” Jensen is so, very happy about this turn of events. Positively vibrating with it. “Oh,” shimmies and shakes up the ladder of his spine. “Oh,” trickles down to slow burning ache. “Oh,” is raw animal honesty. “Oh,” is undeniable pleasure. “Oh,” begins and ends with, “Jared.”   
  
Then louder: “Can you—can you?” Jensen isn’t sure what he’s asking for but he’s sure Jared would know. Jared knows everything.  
  
And of course, he does. Jared rocks them forward. Sets Jensen down and tugs Jensen’s briefs just as Jensen lifts his hips, taking the time to pause over his knees then again over his ankles, skinning himself of his own just after. Jensen so much smaller than Jared suddenly, the way Jared’s hand manages to close over his ankle completely. And that’s new. New as the width of Jared’s shoulders.  
  
It’s surreal, allowing Jared to position him how he wants Jensen, kneads the backs of his thighs. Impossible to believe Jared wants him at all. Jensen can barely look at Jared, can hardly keep his legs apart for his scrutiny. But he’s nothing if not Jared’s. And he wants to be used by him, wants to be left puffy and red and tender, wants his belly to distend drum tight around Jared’s ridiculously gorgeous cock; wants to feel it touch the apex of his heart.  
  
Even though Jensen trembles from adrenaline, he guides Jared back to him with a spit-wet hand wrapped protectively around him, possessing him. He’s so sweet for him, teetering dangerously on the edge of something he doesn’t know. But he wants it. Wants it so bad his knees shake, and his toes curl. He tries not to think how a few fingers compare to the real thing but he want it: Jared’s dick. Jared makes him gleam and blush as Jared slip-catch-slides against Jensen. Grinds hard and wet into all of Jensen’s rosy heat until Jensen thinks he’s going to lose his mind or cry, because it has yet to work.  
  
He doesn’t mean to resist. Truly he doesn’t. And then, suddenly he feels himself grip Jared, spasming, until—until –the tip of Jared’s dick disappears within, a juddering, painful pop. Jensen howls, breathy and honeyed around the thick-veined shaft, jerks and comes all over his little belly. Just like that, clutching the broad head of Jared’s dick.  
  
They were both a little unprepared for it. Humiliated, Jensen covers his face with his hands, but Jared removes them, unbothered, smiles at Jensen and stares at the slick pooling in Jensen’s navel. Gathers what he can and coats himself with it.  
  
“This okay?”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Jensen mumble-hums, body oversensitized and lax.  
  
Jared doesn’t surge forward and force himself on Jensen like he might want to. Jensen aids as much as he can, his hands going under his bent legs to his cheeks to spread them wide, wide, wide. Jared coaxes the tough muscle surrounding him to gain more distance, and Jensen wants it more than anyone, but as soon as Jared realizes Jensen is trying his hardest not to cry, he stops and pulls out. Jensen feels like he might have taken Jensen’s heart with him.  
  
“S’kay, Jen,” Jared reassures him, thick-voiced, already snapping his hips into his fist so hard his balls careen forward to slap against his knuckles. “ s’kay. Later. This is enough.”  
  
But not good enough for Jensen. Jensen clamps his legs together for Jared, as tight as his bent legs allow, ankles overlapping and says “Here, fuck my thighs.”  
  
Slicked up with spit and Jensen’s come, Jared pushes into the seam of Jensen’s thighs, his legs straddling Jensen and his forearms bracketing Jensen’s chest, under his arms; Jensen’s half-plumped cock pressed between them. Jared thrusts with his whole body, the head of him brushing past Jensen’s perineum, base to Jensen’s peach-fuzzy balls, reaching the plump swell of Jensen’s ass, touching at that guessed at, chanced upon opening. Still so very sore from so very not-so-little. And Jared, a suspended heavenly body, gold-limned and beautiful, above him, a gasping, writhing thing Jensen struggles to soothe with what little his body is able to give, the summer-hot squeeze of his inner thighs and the promise of more.  
  
“You gonna let me come inside you?” Jared grits against Jensen’s teeth. “Can I, Jensen? Can I? You gonna let me do it? Please, please--” and comes, coming forever and new perfect.  
  
“Yeah, Jay.” Jensen cannot be any messier if he tried: he’s a boy-shaped Rorschach test in semen and good intentions. Jared’s face is half in shadow, concealed by damp curtains of hair. He was mostly hovering over Jensen, looking at him, suddenly, beautifully shy.  
  
It  _could_  stay a game, as long as neither one of them talks about it. The supple spongy head of Jared’s half-hard cock, to own such a proud and  _magnificent_  thing, twitching against Jensen’s groin and it’s promptly more real and too late for denial and lies. It consumes Jensen with such an overwhelming rush of emotion, he gathers all of Jared to himself, cradles and kisses his face all over until Jared begins kissing back.  
  
“We’ll be okay,” Jensen tells him. “We’ll be okay.” Because everything has changed now. And it’s not so scary anymore, not a bit, because Jensen has changed too.  
  
“What they don’t know can’t hurt us.”


End file.
